


The Gods Must Be Crazy

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Character of Color, Foursome, Multi, Multiple Partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just get so damned lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They brought their radios and a small, emergency transmitter, but left their tac vests. Ronon wouldn't leave his blaster behind for anything, and probably had eight or ten knives hidden around his person. John had a Glock but Teyla just brought her bantos. Rodney didn't even bring a laptop.

They were all dressed in civvies of various kinds, jeans or leather or soft-woven Athosian cloth. John knew Teyla was wearing a tight-knit top under all that loose cotton, and when they were standing in front of the Gate he wished he could slide his hands underneath and rest them on her waist, feel the cloth moving against her skin. This whole thing was still new enough that every touch was a fucking gift—a miracle some freakish Gods had granted him out of whimsy or inattention or maybe even pure insanity. John wasn't counting out malevolence, though, and didn't quite trust it wouldn't all be snatched away in an instant.

So far he'd been proven wrong.

All three of them had asked what he wanted to do for his birthday, first casually and then not so casually, and when his non-committal replies didn't work (the truth was he already _had_ what he wanted, but he couldn't just say that, could he?) they got more insistent, until finally Ronon betrayed him and told what he'd discovered when they were sparring that time, and they resorted to holding him down and _tickling_, which was just plain unfair.

So, he'd told them he wanted to go sailing. The real deal, full mast, thirty-footer or Pegasus equivalent. He figured he'd ask for the impossible and he'd be scot free, but he hadn't counted on Teyla, which was stupid. He should always count on Teyla, because not only had she been sailing before, she had friends with a sailboat and they were willing to lend it for a reasonable trade. Torren wouldn't be able to come—apparently Kanaan wasn't comfortable with the boat idea, and Teyla liked to pick her battles with him—but otherwise, Teyla had said, John's birthday wish would come true.

Woolsey waved them on with a stiff little smile that was still sincere, promising to dial up for regular check-ins. With a little push from Ronon, John stumbled through the Gate, and from there it was an easy walk down to the docks where Teyla's friend was waiting by the boat. Thressa seemed delighted with the trade Teyla piled at her feet—the shirts and pants and four pairs of Athosian slippers that John had seen Teyla knitting; the plastic containers Teyla folded them into that John recognized were from Rodney's lab storage, along with a cardboard box of preciously hoarded Tim-Tams, Cadbury chocolate bars and Christmas candy; and finally, an elaborately carved mancala board that John knew for a fact Ronon had gotten from Gunny Williams for some off-duty training.

"It's a game," Ronon said gruffly to Thressa. "Teyla said you asked for a game. I translated the instructions into trade language."

"It is a good trade," Thressa said, grasping Teyla's shoulders. Teyla reciprocated, and they bowed their foreheads together. "Enjoy your trip. I will expect you on the fourth turn. The water tanks are full, and are good for at least seven days with four passengers."

"Thank you, my friend."

They said their goodbyes and walked down the pier, their steps rattling on the warped boards.

"Guys..." John wanted to say, _This is too much._ But that would be kind of assholish, so he settled on, "Thanks for this."

Teyla smiled at him, and Ronon punched him on the shoulder. Rodney just rolled his eyes and huffed his way over the side of the boat.

As soon as they cast off, the constant tension John felt whenever they were off-world started to fade. He looked at Teyla, at Ronon and Rodney, and saw it hit them too. The three of them went below decks to get rid of their gear while John trimmed the mainsail, took the tiller and steered them out to sea. It wasn't like flying, but with the salt spray hitting his face, and with nothing but water and sky around him, it was a different kind of freedom. Before there were planes, before there was the open road, there was the open ocean and the unending horizon. It swallowed John's sight from end to end, a wide band of perfect blue.

Teyla came back up first. She was wearing almost nothing: a brief cotton skirt and a lace-up shirt, the one John had been imagining. She came up to him and brushed a soft kiss against his lips and then folded her hand over his on the tiller.

"Go ahead, John. I will guide us."

John grinned his thanks and took his bags below. Ronon was carefully stowing his gear in the webbed shelving next to the giant Captain's bunk. Rodney had disappeared into the head, but his stuff was already put away.

John wasted no time getting out of his shirt, jeans and boots and replacing them with a pair of swim trunks and flip-flops. He rubbed a desultory coat of sunblock over his face, neck and chest and arms—it had been a while since he'd seen the sun.

When he turned around, Ronon was grinning at him, wearing nothing but a pair of loose cotton shorts and looking like sex incarnate.

"Wanna fuck?"

"Like I'm gonna say 'no.'"

Ronon started to swoop in to kiss him, but was halted by a cocoa-butter smelling palm and a loud "Ehem."

"What is it, Rodney?" John said, irritated.

"Teyla is waiting for us, along with lunch, and I am _starving_. Later with the sexual shenanigans."

Ronon crossed his arms. "Fine."

"Spoilsport."

Just for that, John wasn't going to tell Rodney he'd missed his nose when slathering on all that sunblock.

:::

So there they were, drifting on an alien ocean. Thressa had assured Teyla the only really dangerous sea life fed at nightfall or in the colder waters; it was safe enough for them to swim during the days. Ronon took this as a cue to pick John up at every opportunity and throw him overboard, leaving him to sputter and gasp his way back to the boat while cursing at Ronon in Farsi. The third time it happened John enlisted Teyla and Rodney's help in pinning Ronon to the deck, then straddled Ronon's torso and kissed him and kissed him, fingers buried carefully in his hair, until Ronon was breathless and red. Then the three of them sucked their way over his skin, burned a reddish bronze by the swollen sun, until Ronon was begging and cursing as well.

When he was deemed hot enough by Teyla's wicked smile and Rodney's barely suppressed laughter, John nodded and together they pulled Ronon to his feet and tipped him over the side.

"Sheppard!" Ronon howled when he regained the surface.

John laughed so hard he almost bust his gut.

In the afternoon, Teyla complained the sun on the water was giving her a headache, so John gave her his sunglasses. She looked so boss cool in them he had to kiss her, and she pushed him against the cockpit and kissed him back, her small hands damp against the hot skin of his chest.

"Happy Birthday, John," she said, and nibbled on his throat with her wickedly sharp teeth, right on his Iratus scar. She knew what that did to him, and he had to reach out and steady himself on the tied-off tiller. God, he loved her. So much.

"Hey, you two idiots better not pull us off course," Rodney yelled. "We need to stay in sight of land."

Teyla laughed against John's neck, and John squeezed her once and let go.

"Later," she promised.

John smiled. He knew later Rodney would bitch about his sunburned nose, and John would kiss it better, and Ronon would get back at John for the dunking by pinning him to the ultra-huge bunk in the Captain's quarters and fucking him silly as the boat rocked beneath them, and if John was lucky he'd get to kiss and lick Teyla's sweet pussy while he was being fucked, and make her come and get her all soft and hot and ready for Rodney, and maybe John would get hard enough again to fuck Rodney to top off his birthday night.

And if those crazy Gods would just look the other way long enough, maybe they could do this again next year.

Life really might be that sweet.


	2. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OT4 Slash/Het (I can't tell from the tags if that's clear).
> 
> This is a prequel to _The Gods Must Be Crazy._
> 
> John's first special birthday. (Written for JFlan's birthday, very belated.)

After Torren John and all the other younger Athosians were taken away to bed, Halling cracked open John’s birthday hooch.

That’s when it all started, John figured.

He was pretty cozy, propped up in his corner of Teyla’s tent-room on a generous pile of pillows and rugs, though he was still aching a little from their last mission, and not inclined to move any time soon. It was his birthday, damn it, and he was feeling pretty lucky to have gotten away with nothing more than a strained muscle or two, with downtime, good alcohol, and awesome friends and his team to share it with.

That ought to be enough for anyone.

He drank his hooch, gasping a little at the burn of berries and 1000% alcohol-by-volume—Teyla’s cousin Corto was a _genius_—and watched in fuzzy surprise as Kanaan swayed upright assisted by the two beautiful, slim sisters, Beati and Chela, one of whom had gotten handsy with John a couple of harvests back. He’d been close to sealing the deal with her, too, before she’d made it known she didn’t go anywhere without her sister. But John didn’t do trios, too freaky, so he’d gone home with a steel boner and Beati’s dark-eyed, disappointed frown lingering in his mind’s eye.

Teyla didn’t look surprised or hurt at all to see Kanaan moseying off with the sisters, so John decided he wouldn’t have to hamstring the guy.

Not that Teyla could do a better job of it than him with her left pinky, but there were some things a person shouldn't have to stoop to take care of.

But it was fine, fine, everything was hunky-dory. People laughed, and talked, and came by to wish him well and give him tasty treats, and then wandered off again, sometimes in pairs to go off to their own tents. John stared down into his mug and wondered if the berries were turning his tongue purple.

A cup and a half later and John’s spine was doing that thing where it refused to hold his head upright—really annoying until he fussed with a pillow to do the job. It put Ronon in view. Ronon, who was lounging on a papa-san type chair, his legs crossed, and a handful of fruit being dangled into his mouth by...Rodney?

John blinked.

Nope. That was definitely Rodney, hand-feeding Ronon grape-things, the big ones without seeds that didn’t taste like grapes, and Teyla had her hip learning on one side of the chair and was—totally impossibly—nibbling on Rodney’s earlobe, looked like. Looked like.

John gazed around the rest of the tent for Replicators, but there was just Corto and Sasca left, canoodling in another corner under the Chinese lantern John had given Teyla for Christmas to give her tent some cheer for when she was on the Mainland. The wick was sputtering low, but even so John could tell Corto had his hand all the way up his wife’s skirt.

Some time between John’s blink and nod this had turned into 70s night, Ice Storm-style.

Sasca looked up and saw John’s eyes on her and gave him a sultry smile, prompting Corto to glance over. They both nodded encouragingly, Corto gesturing, and John felt suddenly like a chipmunk in front of a bus.

“Oh, no, no-no,” came Rodney’s voice, and then Teyla shushed him and at once she was standing in front of Corto and Sasca and, _Thank God_ for teamwork and years of diplomacy in the field—Teyla was going to save him from an incredibly embarrassing situation.

John’s spine had remembered how to do its thing, and he straightened up a little in the pillows; enough to sit upright, anyway, and nod goodbye to the couple as they said their farewells.

“Thanks for the great hooch, Corto,” John said, giving him a salute.

“Do you mean the _isha_, Colonel? Yes, it was a good batch. I will have Teyla bring you some to Atlantis.”

“Oh, that sounds like a terrible idea. Thank you very much.” He grinned, and Corto smiled back before ducking out behind his wife.

“And thank _you_,” John murmured to Teyla, collapsing backward with a sigh.

Teyla gave him a smile he couldn't read and went over to the sideboard to fetch more of the grape-things. The fruit was larger, and orange, but didn’t taste like either orange or grapes. More like mangos. John’s mouth watered, seeing them in Teyla’s hand.

“Would you like some mooraki, John?” She was still smiling that same smile when her sharp teeth bit off one of the fruit.

John swallowed.

“Yeah. Could you toss me some?”

“I can do better.” She, well, she didn’t slither, but there was something more sinewy than normal about the way Teyla walked over to him, as if it took fewer muscles, or more oil or something, and John could feel his eyes widening because suddenly—Teyla—in his lap.

Feeding him grapes.

“Bite, John,” she said, and John bit down as directed, the cool splash of flavor tightening his taste buds, much in the same way the sensation of Teyla’s muscular thigh pressed so close to his groin was tightening up other things.

“Good?”

John nodded frantically. He looked over at Ronon and Rodney for support and—holy Hannah. They were kissing lazily, Rodney sitting sideways on Ronon’s lap as well. It wasn’t a bad look on Rodney, being all flushed and his hair sticking up like that from Ronon’s hands. But it was weird. This whole thing was...just...weird. And John eased Teyla sideways as gently as he could, his entire brain in freeze-lock.

“Hungry,” he said in explanation to her frown as he rolled to his feet and weaved over to the sideboard. He saw some meatrolls and plopped them onto a plate on autopilot.

“You aren’t seriously,” Rodney said suddenly right next to his ear, “choosing what looks like pigs in a blanket over the charms of our Ms. Teyla Emmagan. You can’t _be_ that stupid—”

“Rodney,” John said, or tried to start to mumble, but Rodney gave an exasperated noise.

“—or hurt Teyla’s feelings like that.”

_That would suck._ Nothing would kill him more than hurting Teyla. John slung his head over to view the corner, where he saw Ronon was now petting Teyla’s hair. And, okay, John was a turd. A low, slimy turd.

“I didn’t mean—”

“To be a schmuck?” Rodney was chewing on something.

“Hey! You stole my pigs!”

Rodney was beaming at him sarcastically around a mouthful of meatrolls. And he was way too close. Touching close. In fact, he was touching John’s ass. Huh.

“This is a conspiracy,” John announced finally.

Rodney nodded and tapped his temple. “Duh. The birthday boy gets a clue. Do you know how much trouble we went through setting this up?"

"Set up? Really? You mean it really—?"

"Mooraki don't just grow on trees, you know."

"Actually, they—"

Rodney waved his hand, "Figuratively. Of course. Not to mention the isha, which puts you in just this absolutely jello-like frame of mind. But, if you really want to disappoint the whole team," he said airily. "On your birthday," he added with killing precision.

“But, I—Rodney,” John leaned in and said, low, “This isn't my usual thing. I don’t—I can’t _do_ stuff like—” he knew he was sputtering but all he could get out was an incoherent, “parts! Too many parts!” The possible images fluttered through his head, exciting but a little nerve-wracking, especially since some of those parts he hadn’t had contact with in a while, excepting his own, very familiar, happy part, which was making a case for tossing his brain out the tent flap and making a run for the cushion corner, where Ronon’s hair petting had progressed into other kinds. Really, really sexy kinds, with impatient glances over to John and Rodney, like, _What the hell are you waiting for?_

Beside him, Rodney seemed to be choking on laughter, or maybe commiseration. “Look, I’m an engineer; genius, remember?” he said coaxingly. “I know how to slot things together." His hand was suddenly back and hot on the rise of John’s ass.

John felt a rush of blood to parts unknown. Maybe outside the tent flap. He clutched at the table.

“Rodney,” he croaked. “wouldn’t this ruin us? I mean—”

All this time he’d avoided looking at Rodney, but suddenly those big blue eyes were there, filled with more compassion than he’d expected, given Rodney’s tendency to poke sharp, jabby probes in every vulnerable spot John had.

“What’s the real problem here?” Rodney said. “Do you even know? Because it can’t be the overwhelming hotness of the scenario.”

Heat flooded over John’s skin again in a wave, prickling under his shirt.

“You’re my _team_. I lose this, I lose everything.”

Rodney shook his head. “This isn’t losing. This is winning. Seriously, this is the big win.”

“Sheppard. Get your ass over here,” Ronon called out suddenly.

John groaned. “Okay, okay. Keep your pants on.” He turned, and then, Jesus. Okay. “I meant that, like a metaphor, okay? Or a simile? What’s that thing? A figure of fucking _speech_, Ronon. Or, you know—”

Skin. So, so very much skin. Ronon had a lot of it, all of it beautiful, and John mourned every scar he was personally responsible for letting mar the smooth perfection of it. Except he wouldn’t be Ronon without the scars, or without the sly grin he shot John before turning back to what he was doing to Teyla, which was apparently taking her apart with his mouth underneath her skirt.

“Jesus effing Christ.”

“Yeah,” Rodney said wistfully. “It’s like, I don’t know, should we even? I feel like a total clod next to those two.”

“Oh, you’re plenty pretty. Penny Priddy. Ha.” John snickered, feeling completely drunk on skin, and on teetering on the edge of this impossible thing.

“That puts me so in the mood, Buckaroo. C’mon.” Rodney turned him and started working on the buttons of his shirt with determination.

“Whoa.”

“Don’t fuss.”

“Shouldn’t you, I don't know, kiss me or something first?” John asked breathlessly. God. To kiss Rodney. To kiss Rodney McKay. There was an idea.

Rodney looked up at him, twisty mouth pouting a little in concentration, as if John were a particular equation missing a tilde somewhere; actually, Rodney’s mouth looked a little bit like a tilde as he reached for the back of John’s neck and leaned in and—

Curvy, full and mobile lips moved against John’s, and Rodney’s soft, agile tongue filled John’s mouth, and John’s brain seized up like a rotor caught in razor wire, his body flashing heat. He knew he was making noise, way too much noise, because Rodney was groaning happily back at him, fingers tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt, and then there were other hands, more hands—_parts! parts!_ his brain managed to stutter hysterically. How the hell was this supposed to work?

Teyla’s fingers were on the front of his jeans, and that was Ronon—John could tell because of all the blocking warmth behind him—holding him up while Rodney got rid of his shoes.

“Guys this is crazy, this is crazy,” he tried to say. He was barely whispering it, but Teyla pressed her fingers against his lips, her smile a little sad but the gleam in her eye hungry, like she’d been when she was carrying Torren and pretty much eating everything in sight, no pudding cup safe.

_Oh, God, I’m a pudding cup,_ he thought before Teyla pushed him backward with both hands into Ronon’s laughing embrace, and Ronon _heaved_ him, pants falling down his thighs, onto the cushions, then followed him right after.

“Idiot! Don’t break him!” Rodney grumbled, kneeling to tug John’s pants from his legs.

“Whoa, shit, wait!” John said, because his boxers were trying to go with, but Ronon caught his hands and pulled them up over his head. John felt the strength of Ronon’s thumbs against his wrists—so much power there—and for a brief second he felt the pressure to struggle, to fight, but this was _Ronon_. Jesus. Ronon would no more hurt him, for real, than Carson would. Than his own mother.

John’s heart squeezed hard for a second, and he breathed through it, staring up at Ronon’s face. Ronon looked awfully young in that moment, his lips puffy and red from Teyla’s kisses, his hazel eyes so clear. John reached up and pulled him down and kissed him the best he knew how.

Jesus, Ronon could kiss.

"Yeah, John. Finally." Ronon thumbed the corner of John's mouth and smiled down at him. John smiled back, then looked over and discovered Teyla and Rodney were both completely naked. Such a wealth of contrasting skin—Teyla’s gorgeous breasts and Rodney’s pink nipples. John felt frozen with indecision.

Fortunately, Rodney didn’t have that problem. He kissed Teyla one more time and then pushed her toward John, lifting her hair and kissing the back of her neck while he stared at John over her shoulder.

“John, you hurt Teyla’s feelings. I think you should apologize. Properly."

"Oh, that sounds ideal." Teyla gave a little growly sound and rose over him with a smile. John thought his heart would stop.

“I’m—”

Rodney frowned at him and shook his head.

So, John started at her waist, sweeping his hands up and following with his mouth, filling them both with the arch of her ribs, the fullness of her breasts, lapping at the faint, silvery lines of the stretch marks she’d earned from breast-feeding Torren John. Beautiful, so goddamned beautiful, the sounds she was making from the touch of John’s hands and mouth, and Rodney’s too—whatever he was doing behind her was making her a little insane, John could tell.

Then John went down, and God, he loved this, resting his temple on her thigh and getting his mouth on her, nuzzling right up to her clit and stroking his tongue underneath, the crinkle of her pubic hair scratching at his nose. She tasted musky-honey-sweet, and he licked his fingers and slipped two right inside her to give her something to clench around and rut against while he sucked at and ran his tongue over her clit, up and over and around.

She lifted her thigh over his shoulder and sweet, long moments later she jerked and cried out and then sagged a little, but there was still something going on he couldn’t figure until with a start he realized Rodney’s finger was slowly sliding out of her ass.

_Wow_.

“Thank you, John,” Teyla said huskily. “That was an acceptable apology.”

John raised his head indignantly. If he weren’t still so drunk he would’ve come up with a really articulate response. Even so, he was planning to give her a pretty stupidly phrased one about showing her more later, except he was only just now noticing someone was squeezing his bare ass. From the size of the hands it was Ronon. From the intentness, Ronon had plans, and John didn’t know how to tell him it wasn’t something he did, or at least had thought of doing, but anyway it was pretty much moot because _fingers!_ Slimy fingers trying to slide into his ass!

“Oh, Jesus, Ronon, hey! Hey, buddy, I don’t—” John jerked away.

Teyla kissed him. “He did much the same to me, the first time. Really, the man does not seem to appreciate warning people.” Teyla frowned over John’s shoulder. “Ronon, I believe you should slow down somewhat.”

_Slow down?_ “I, ah.” John knew for a fact his ears were turning red, if they weren’t already. “This is new territory.” He winced at the phrasing, and then shot a glare when Rodney snorted at him from over Teyla’s shoulder.

Also, John’s dick was going soft.

“Just relax, Sheppard,” Ronon said, "we'll do something else," and came up behind him to clasp him around the waist. With Teyla in front of him, her beautiful breasts crushed against his chest, he suddenly felt like the hairy older talent in the middle of a porn-star sandwich.

And damned if he was going to be left behind in the ratings.

“No, it‘s okay,” he said. “Just, take it easy with the goods.”

Ronon really was easy after that, but it was still strange, until it was _God_, incredible, Teyla kissing him so hot and the press of Ronon's fingers sliding inside him, and pressure against this place behind his balls that felt like coming already, already, _finally_, even though he wasn't even, and he realized he was jerking back, arched back and over practically, his head thrown over Ronon’s shoulder. Teyla seemed to take that as an invitation to climb him and sink down onto his cock, which had definitely, _definitely_ gotten back in the action.

“Jesus, Teyla!”

She smiled smugly and kissed him—well, she stuck her tongue in his mouth, and he sucked on it blindly, because there was more going on than he could deal with. Ronon was easing his thick, warm cock inside of him now, and John couldn’t breathe.

Teyla rubbed his chest and smiled down at him, but that didn’t help half as much as when she rolled her hips suddenly, clenching hard around him.

John squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered.

Teyla only laughed, or maybe it was a moan—some kind of low, breathy sound that raised the hair on John’s arms, it was so hot, and that was when John realized he could feel new pressure against his dick, moving with the circle of Teyla’s hips, and he looked up to see Rodney’s face over Teyla’s shoulder.

It was almost all over then. If Ronon hadn’t shoved too soon, breaking the rhythm a little and giving John something new to think about, he probably would have shot his load right in that instant, just knowing he and Rodney were sharing Teyla; that Ronon and Teyla were sharing John; that together they were all sharing each other.

Ronon gave a grunt and settled into a smoother stroke, and with each slide of his thick cock John could feel himself opening a little wider; it didn’t ache anymore, instead it felt slick and easy, and he thought he would die from the pressure against that spot behind his balls, and the way his cock was being squeezed by Teyla’s sweet heat against Rodney’s shaft, all their parts moving in sync. Then Teyla smiled, that same wicked smile, her eyelids a little sex-swollen, and John reached up to touch her and pull her into a soft kiss before falling back into the insane goodness of it.

He barely even noticed his own orgasm when it happened, he was too busy listening to Rodney’s cries, and then watching Teyla’s face—God, Teyla’s beautiful face, finally broken of serenity and empty of pain, filled with joy and twisting pleasure, her lips curling back on her teeth, and then John felt Ronon’s cock swelling and pulsing in his ass, a beat, another beat, and then Ronon’s hot breath on the back of his neck in a weary, grateful sigh. It was way too much, and the last echoes of pleasure stabbed through John’s groin, making him groan again and thrust one last time into Teyla. She smiled in lazy pleasure and kissed him, then raised herself up to kiss Ronon as well.

Unfortunately, her movement caused them all to fall apart like scattering Legos, and Rodney made a vocal complaint and rose from the cushions muttering something about, _"...always the one who gets the damned towels."_

“Always?” John said, raising an eyebrow at Teyla.

“We have been waiting for you, John,” she said with some asperity. “Far too long, it seems.”

He felt heat rising along his neck. “Hey. I’m not—this isn’t—”

“Your usual thing?” Ronon said, his beard scratching between John’s shoulder blades. “You already said. So, can you make it be?”

John twisted around, because nothing should make Ronon of all people sound like that. “Hey, yeah! Are you kidding?” He lifted his heavy arm around Ronon’s neck and tried to kiss him, but Ronon resisted for a second, staring in his eyes, before nodding once in satisfaction.

Then Ronon kissed the bejesus out of him.

A couple of wet towels dropped on their heads. “Break it up, you two, and get cleaned off. I hate the smell of stale sex. And just imagine it times four, if you will.”

“Jesus, Rodney, way to bust up the afterglow.”

“You’re new to this, so trust me—there’s no afterglow, there’s just a five minute window in between with these two. If you’re lucky.”

“Well, I _feel_ lucky,” John said softly, still a bit, well, not so much drunk anymore as bowled over by surprised affection. Also, he was a little bit sex-stupid at this point. He stood up and started cleaning up, and, yeah, having to wipe his ass after sex was a new thing, but if the expression on Ronon’s face just now was any indication, it was probably something he’d have to get used to.

John dick gave a little twitch at the thought.

He finished wiping down, then went over and tossed his dirty towel at the pile of party napkins in the corner and pulled a squawking Rodney back to where Ronon and Teyla were already nuzzling each other again on the cushions.

“Happy birthday, John,” Teyla said, her eyes catching the glow of the Chinese lantern. “Don’t forget: it is our custom to make your wishes for the coming year before you fall asleep.” She gave him a soft kiss, and then determinedly pushed him flat beside her, shoving him until he provided her a shoulder for a pillow. A few seconds later, Ronon’s heavy thigh was crossing over John’s, and he saw Rodney spooning up behind Teyla, his hand coming over her waist to settle on John’s stomach.

_Yeah. Pretty fucking lucky,_ John thought, and made his wish.

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John's birthday hooch was 2000-proof. No wonder it worked!
> 
> [Penny Priddy](http://www.worldwatchonline.com/pennybio.htm) is the long-lost twin sister of [Buckaroo Banzai's](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventures_of_Buckaroo_Banzai_Across_the_8th_Dimension) late wife. She's played by Ellen Barkin in the film and is a hidden genius who rescues Dr. Banzai's, uh, oscillation overthruster. Also, she is very pretty. If you haven't seen Buckaroo Banzai, well, just. Seriously. Rodney will kill you.

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](http://www.gatefic.com/index.php?option=com_eventlist&view=categoryevents&id=1&Itemid=9)


End file.
